


Awake in a Nightmare

by airebellah



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Battle of Azanulbizar, Blood and Gore, Childhood Trauma, Consort Bilbo Baggins, Dark Thorin, Emotionally Constipated Thorin, Erebor, Established Relationship, Gen, Heavy Angst, King Thorin, Oblivious Bilbo, Overprotective Thorin, PTSD, Poor Bilbo, Post-Battle of Five Armies, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Thorin, Psychosis, Slash, Thorin Feels, Thorin has PTSD, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-02
Updated: 2015-08-02
Packaged: 2018-04-12 16:05:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4485984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/airebellah/pseuds/airebellah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was written for Terrifying Tolkien Week. Please heed the archive warnings and tags before reading.</p><p>Erebor is reclaimed and slowly rebuilding. Thorin and Bilbo are happily married. For once in his life, Thorin can rest easy at night knowing his people are safe and provided for.</p><p>Of course, it would be in such a time of complacency that unresolved torments from the past would plague Thorin, culminating in a deadly climax.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Awake in a Nightmare

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys, this is my contribution for Terrifying Tolkien Week. As such, it has a very dark theme so please read all the warnings and tags before reading.
> 
> This is my second time writing a fic, I'm still super new to this, so please let me know if there's any mistakes (it's non-beta'd) or anything that could be changed/improved, construction criticism greatly appreciated. :)

Healing after the Battle of the Five Armies – as the fight was now known– took many weeks for Thorin, both physically and mentally. Bilbo was a constant presence at his side; with Thorin originally bed-ridden, they were able to work through their dual betrayals and impart forgiveness to each other. As they moved on and grew closer, a courtship started between them, much to relief of the Company who had long awaited such news. Once Thorin was well enough to stand, he was officially crowned as King under the Mountain. A few short months later came the announcement that King Thorin would marry Bilbo Baggins of the Shire. They were wed in a grand celebration that hailed dignitaries from many corners of the world.

All seemed blessedly good for the people of Erebor and their king. Rebuilding the remains of Smaug’s desolation was hard work; progress came slowly, but came it did. Refugees gradually poured in, and many dwarrows were reunited after almost two centuries. Bilbo acclimated to the role of Consort with surprising ease, and he was a patient balm against the King’s quick temper.

However, not all was as good as it seemed.

While Thorin had come to terms with the grave ills he had committed under the lure of dragon sickness, and had made peace with all those whom he had wronged (save for a certain Elven King, for Thorin insisted he had done no wrong), he was plagued by other troubles.

For many decades ago, at a mere 53 years of age, Thorin had joined his grandfather and father to reclaim Moria. The Battle of Azanulbizar was something that had haunted Thorin lo these many years. He lost his grandfather and king, his father, and his brother all in one ill-fated battle. The horrors of the battlefield were permanently ingrained in him: the desperate cries of eviscerated dwarrows pleading for mercy; the slippery, coppery taste of blood on his tongue; the clash and clang of metal on metal; sickening snap of bones breaking; seeing his grandfather’s head, sans body, face contorted in a permanent scream.

The years after the war were spent focused on leading his exiled people, as Thorin was the only one left to whom they could turn. Thorin had pushed the memories away, the horrors of war hidden in the recesses of his mind.

But now, in the comparative idleness of kingship, Thorin could no longer ignore the buried past. Nevertheless, try he did; he pushed himself harder into his duties, calling more council meetings, driving for more trades, spending his nights bent over a desk with a failing candle to light his incessant writing.

Bilbo tried his best to help his husband. He was there at every meeting, calming irate councilmen and an ever more irate king. Bilbo reasoned with Thorin’s irrational demands, gently persuading him to slow down and think things over before making any decisions. And on the nights where the bed remained cold without his husband’s presence, Bilbo would pull on his patchwork robe, make some tea, and sit down at the desk, reviewing Thorin’s messy drafts.

It wasn’t the most effective route. Of course Bilbo tried talking to Thorin, coaxing him to sleep, inviting him to discuss what so obviously troubled the dwarf king. But Thorin was stubborn, and to be a burden on Bilbo was something he wanted never again. To speak of his troubles – admitting that every time he closed his eyes, the gory scenes of battle blinded him – would make it all the more real.

Ignoring the problem only lasted so long, however.

 

It was just another night when Bilbo awoke to an empty bed. Groggily he stood, pulled on his robe, and approached the hearth. However, Bilbo soon realized the crackling of the flames was not accompanied by the familiar scratching of Thorin’s quill against parchment.

“Thorin?” Bilbo called softly.

As he approached, he realized that instead of hunched over papers as usual, Thorin was actually collapsed on top of the table. He was asleep, indicated by soft snores and a light rise and fall of his chest.

With a soft chuckle, Bilbo reached over to extinguish the dying candle. It was not until the dwarf let out a malicious cry that Bilbo was alerted to Thorin’s disturbed waking. It was quickly followed by a harsh swing of his arm. Bilbo took the blow right to his face, stumbling back with a pained cry. Feet unable to gain purchase, he fell gracelessly on his backside.

Thorin had leapt from his seat, crouching low in a defensive pose. He had his right arm out as if brandishing a sword, and the left braced closer to his body – as he would have wielded his namesake, had he not lost it months ago. He yelled out a string of Khuzdul, words unknown to Bilbo but most certainly threatening.

“Thorin, stop!” Bilbo yelled. He heard a vicious snarl and squeezed his eyes shut tightly, bracing his hands in front of him to fend off any further attacks. His limbs shook with tension, but he could not bring himself to look up, even as Thorin fell to his knees in front of him. Bilbo flinched as a large hand, so threatening but a moment ago, reached out to stroke his cheek.

“Ghivashel,” Thorin whispered, his voice cracking. “What – what happened?”

Bilbo swallowed, bracing himself to finally look up. The ensuing silence was the only answer, and a profound pang pierced Bilbo’s stomach as Thorin inspected Bilbo’s battered cheek, realization slowly dawning on his face.

“No, no, Mahal, please,” he beseeched. “Tell me I did not lay a hand upon you, _amrâlimê_.”

Twitching his nose uncomfortably, Bilbo had to look away from Thorin’s horrified, repulsed expression. His husband stood, but Bilbo remained on the floor, hugging his hands around his knees. It was not until he heard the metal scrape of a weapon being unsheathed that he dared to look.

“Thorin!” he cried as he saw a small knife pressed against the King’s throat. Leaping up, the hobbit grabbed the dwarf’s arm and desperately tried to pull the knife away, though it was to no avail; Thorin was much too strong. “Thorin, what are you doing?”

His husband’s averted gaze looked straight ahead, eyes wet yet hard with determination. “I shall shear my beard, that everyone may know my shame!” he declared with an air of ceremony. The thick braided hair in question, grasped in his left hand, was not yet as long as his palm. Thorin had only allowed himself to grow it out after Erebor’s reclaiming.

“Oh, you – you blasted dwarf.” Bilbo let go of Thorin’s arm with a huff, partially relieved. “Stop that, this instant!” He wagged a threatening finger at his eternally vexing husband, the pain in his jaw now forgotten. “You are not going to cut your confounded beard, Thorin Oakenshield!.”

His husband looked conflicted, glancing down at the clutched hair, then warily back up at Bilbo. Finally he threw the knife aside, only to fall on his knees once more. Hands clasped in front of him, Thorin looked up with desperately pleading eyes.

“Please, _ghivashel_ , understand I would _never_ hurt you. I knew not it was you, my beloved. I swear by Durin’s beard and Mahal’s greatest forges, I would never harm you.”

The grovelling was slightly diminished by the fact that on his knees, Thorin was almost at eye level with Bilbo. But Bilbo could see the frantic sincerity shining in his husband’s wet eyes, and his heart twisted with anguish.

Reaching a hand out, Bilbo gently stroked his fingers down the dwarf’s cheek, brushing his beard softly. “I know,” he whispered. “Thorin, I know. I – I forgive you.”

Bilbo knew Thorin would take much longer to forgive himself. But his only demand was for the King to finally seek the help he clearly needed.

 

Thorin went to Óin, the only healer he trusted with utmost confidence. It was not uncommon for warriors to experience night terrors, at times with violent side effects. Óin prescribed a heavy sleeping draught, and encouraged Thorin to take a respite from running himself haggard. The duties of a king never ceased, but what responsibilities that could be delegated to others were. Council meetings were cut to a minimum, and Thorin was always released from his duties with adequate time to rest.

The first night Thorin took the drink he all but begged Bilbo to sleep in another room. Though he did not mean to doubt Óin’s abilities, he could not accept any risk. The right side of Bilbo’s face was swollen and purple-blue from Thorin’s blow, a constant and painful reminder. However, Bilbo refused to leave his husband’s side.

“I made a vow to you, Thorin son of Thráin," Bilbo reminded him gently. "I bounded myself to you, in fortune and in hardship. I’m not so spineless as to forsake the one I love in your time of need.”

Bilbo’s words only made the guilt in Thorin’s chest tighten. His husband could proclaim his affection so easily, without hesitation, even after all Thorin had put him through.

To Thorin’s surprise, the tea worked perfectly. He slept through the entire night, not a single night terror or even the flicker of a dream. Drinking the tea every night became a religious dedication.

However, the tea was meant as a short-term fix; it was to be used temporarily whilst the patient dealt with underlying emotional scarring. As such, its effects soon began to wane.

 

Bilbo awoke with a start one night, though what startled him so, he could not say. Turning over expecting to see his husband, the hobbit instead encountered an empty bed. The blankets were thrown around haphazardly as if in a hurry. Reaching a hand out, Bilbo could still feel the residual heat from Thorin’s body. He waited a few moments, thinking perhaps Thorin had simply gone to the water closet. Eventually he went to check: it was empty. A search of the study and the parlour afforded the same results. Making his way out into the hallway of the Royal Wing, he was met with darkness. For all that the dwarrows were eager to accommodate their Consort (if not of their own volition, then certainly at Thorin’s command), they seemed to have trouble understanding that hobbits simply could not see in the dark as well as their own kind. As such, they always forgot to leave some torches lit during the night.

But Bilbo was determined to find his husband, and so he started off with a hand against the wall for guidance. He had taken but a few steps when his foot landed in a thick, sticky puddle.

“Oh, lovely,” came a heavy sigh. Attempts to wipe the foreign substance on a patch of dry stone were only partially helpful. The wetness was already between his toes, creating a sickening slippery sensation every step. “Confusticate these dwarves! Is it hard to remember not everyone wears boots all the blasted time?”

Any complaints were soon forgotten, however, when a scraping sound began echoing down the halls. It sent a shiver along his spine, the noise akin to long nails scouring stone. Bilbo instinctively pressed closer against the wall. Perhaps he should go back and retrieve Sting? Letter opener it may purportedly be, but it had helped him in countless situations.

But no, what was he thinking? He’s looking for his husband; it was not as if an orc hid in the darkness ahead.

With a scornful sigh at his own silliness, Bilbo continued down the path. Feet treading silently on the stone, the wetness coating one foot slowly dried. As Bilbo rounded a bend, he was relieved to see a dim glow further down. In the approaching light Bilbo could just make out a figure. Closer inspection made it clear this was, in fact, his husband. Even in his sleep Bilbo could recognize those wavy ebony locks and the broad shoulders shrouded in thick, fur-lined robes.

“Thor-!” Bilbo began to call out, but stopped short. Something wasn’t right, his instincts cautioned. The scraping sound began again, and Bilbo could now see what caused it: evidently Thorin had grabbed Orcrist along with his regal robes when he left their chambers. Now he dragged it along the wall, slowly and without purpose. The shiver Bilbo had felt earlier returned along with a churning in his stomach.

Thorin began muttering rapidly in Khuzdul, the words ricocheted against the walls. The warrior spun around suddenly; Bilbo froze against the wall, afraid he had been caught. Though why he felt caught, and why the thought stopped his heart, he could not say. But it was a foreboding feeling, deep in his bones.

Thorin began to slash Orcrist back and forth erratically, seemingly at empty air; his assailant remained unseen. Bilbo knew he should go back. Someone else would know what to do, how best to approach this situation. He had tried once, and his jaw ached with the memory of that pain.

The hobbit was quite committed to this plan, bracing himself to turn around and silently sneak back, when Thorin fell to the ground in an agonized cry.

“Frerin!” he yelled, voice quaking with immeasurable grief. As Bilbo glanced over, he saw Thorin hold his hands out in front of him as if he were truly clutching the body of his brother. A heart-wrenching sob escaped Thorin’s throat, and Bilbo felt his chest tighten in anguish.

“Oh, Thorin,” he murmured softly. He knew he could not leave his husband like this, crushed and clearly confused.

Before he could second-guess it, he darted towards his weeping husband. “Thorin!” he called out, not wishing to take the man by surprise, not again. Distracted by his concern, he did not notice the way Thorin’s body tensed. Or the fact that he slowly reached out a hand and grasped Orcrist’s handle, the blade lying a few feet away.

“Thorin, it’s alright,” Bilbo soothed gently. “You’re in Erebor, it’s not–” Bilbo was cut off by Orcrist swinging up at his belly before Thorin jumped to his feet. Bilbo barely had enough time to scramble backwards, the blade scraping his skin.

“Murderer!” Thorin accused angrily, jabbing the blade towards the hobbit’s soft middle once more.

The attacks were not the graceful, coordinated blows Bilbo had seen far too many times on their journey. Swipes of the Elvish blade were clumsy, impulsive. But their vicious spontaneity only made them all the harder to avoid.

“No, Thorin, stop!” he yelled desperately, ducking down; in his frantic attempt to escape, he only ended up smashing against the cold, hard floor.

“ _Baruk Khazâd!_ ” Bilbo had no time to clamber out of the way, and he let out a pained cry as the blade sliced through his robe and into the tender flesh of his back.

Despite the burning protest of his aching muscles, Bilbo got to his feet and darted under the shining blade, now marred by his blood. Heart pounding painfully in his chest, his instincts screamed at him; he had to get out, he had to get to safety, if he didn’t, Thorin could seriously injure him!

Cries of anger followed him. “Get back here, you treacherous filth!” The words only spurned Bilbo on more, his feet slapping against the stone loudly as he raced back towards safety. Heavily stomping boots dogged his steps, getting closer, oh so closer – _faster, faster Bilbo!_ his mind screamed.

“ _Khazâd ai-mênu!_ ” The all-too familiar battle cry barely registered in Bilbo’s mind before the blade pierced his back. He stumbled to a stop, breath catching in his throat. His gaze fell to the length of dripping metal now protruding from his chest. Hands reached up partway, shaking, as if to touch the fatal weapon. Air gurgled in his throat, bubbling and thick with blood. Blade ripped from his body, the force bringing Bilbo to his knees. Lungs burned with the need to breathe; futile, for his throat filled with fluid.

A crash behind barely registered in the shock. Hands grasped his face, drawing his attention. Thorin’s terrified, pleading, tear-streaked face came into view. Bilbo stared with wide, confused eyes, struggling to understand.

Vaguely registered was Thorin speaking, words broken and desperate and beseeching. He gazed, unseeing. Bloody bubbles poured out his mouth, dribbled down his chin.

A startled sound, strange and strangled, gurgled out as Thorin grabbed him in a rough embrace. Extremities grew colder and colder, the loss of sensation creeping upwards. Could not feel Thorin sobbing brokenly against him, endless tears wetting his hair, shaking uncontrollable. Ears deaf to Thorin’s desperate prays, _Mahal, please save him, you cannot take him from me, ghivashel, please, âzyungâl, hold on, I promise, I promise, everything is going to be fine, just hold on, please, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, men lananubukhs menu, please Mahal, take me instead_ –

Could not feel Thorin dig his fingers into Bilbo’s robe roughly enough to tear at skin, as if holding on tight enough could stop Bilbo’s escaping soul.

Fading slowly, chest heaved to expel the blood in his throat, replace it with air. Soon succumbing to darkness clouding his vision, numb to his husbands’ anguished cries.

**Author's Note:**

> You can check me out on tumblr at https://www.tumblr.com/blog/airebellah :) always looking to chat about Bagginshield!
> 
> Just wondering: are people picking up all the parallels and the foreshadowing between the two attack scenes, and knows what comes next? ;)


End file.
